Take A Chance On Me
Bandslash, R, ~3760 words. Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon, allusions to Brendon/Spencer. Title from ABBA (no, I don't know why my brain decided that it would be a good idea to use ABBA lyrics for titles in this series). Warning: slavery and related consent issues.
Sequel to "Thank You For The Music". There's going to be one more installment in this 'verse--drop a comment if you want me to ping you when it goes up.
Thanks to crazybutsound for the beta.
ETA: Podfic by cereselle!
***
Sometimes Jon imagines what it would be like to sit back and let Tom be the one to beg the other bands for an extra D string. It's one of his favorite daydreams, right behind getting his own guitar and being allowed to eat pizza. If he had any money, he would cheerfully and willingly buy replacement guitar strings himself just so he wouldn't have to deal with this bullshit. It's not just that Tom doesn't keep spares on hand--it's that every time Jon tries to remind him to buy more, he acts like it's somehow Jon's fault that he can't get through a show without fucking up his instrument.
"Excuse me," Jon says to the lead singer of the only band on the tour he hasn't already hit up. It's Brendon Urie, of Panic! At The Disco, and Jon is a little nervous. He doesn't know much about Panic, and he isn't sure how amenable they'll be to his mooching.
Brendon looks up from the microphone he's fiddling with. Jon quickly evaluates his expression and determines that he's not one of the people who will expect Jon to kneel and wait for permission to speak. Most people around here aren't--tours are rough and rushed, and no one has much time for formalities--but Jon prefers to err on the side of caution rather than the side of getting slapped upside the head.
"Sorry to bother you. I belong to Tom Conrad, of The Academy? One of his guitar strings broke and I was hoping to borrow an extra."
"Sure thing." Brendon hop-skips over to a heavy-duty duffel bag and squats down, rooting around. "D'Addario okay? Ryan's mostly got tens, but I think we have a few heavier sets kicking around if you need them. I haven't had a chance to sit in on The Academy's set yet, I'm not sure what Tom uses."
Jon is impressed. Singers don't often have any clue that different gauges of guitar strings exist, much less the ability to discriminate between them by sight. "Whatever you have is fine. Thanks so much."
"No problem." He comes up with an unopened package and hands over the whole set, leaving his hand extended after Jon takes it. "I'm Brendon," he prompts.
Jon blinks. "Um. I belong to Tom." He's pretty sure he already said that.
Brendon lets his hand drop against his knee with a soft smack. "Right," he mutters.
He sounds pissed. Jon isn't sure what he did wrong. "Thanks again," he says meekly and makes his escape.
***
He crosses paths with Brendon again the next night, while he's performing his usual post-show duties as a walking stick for the chronic alcoholics that always loiter on The Academy's bus. Brendon is worryingly drunk, to the point where Jon is wondering if it would be a bad idea to let him pass out like he's clearly about to do. He shifts Brendon's arm around his shoulders enough to free up a hand and knocks on the door of Panic's bus. There's no answer. He waits a while, then knocks again, bracing himself for the abuse that usually comes with dumping drunk people on bandmates who are trying to sleep.
But when the door opens and the tired-looking guitarist sticks his head out, he doesn't start yelling or swinging his fists. He doesn't even seem mad, just resigned. "Thanks for bringing him back," he says, and Jon very nearly shakes his head in astonishment. What is it with this band?
"I'm a slave," he says. Maybe they just aren't getting that.
Ryan snorts. "Not like that matters around here," he says dismissively, and glares at Brendon. "Although maybe it should. Fucking moron would be better off if he listened to us. How much did he drink?"
Jon doesn't know how much Brendon drank. He's having trouble expressing this, because he is not a moron, and he's pretty sure he didn't misinterpret what Ryan just said. "I-" he starts.
Panic's drummer appears from the shadows of the bus. "Ryan, you jackass, what the hell are you doing?" he demands. "Fuck, fuck. You, come inside right now."
For the first time in his entire life, Jon disobeys a direct order.
He dislodges Brendon from his shoulder, deposits him hurriedly in Ryan's startled arms, and runs, not stopping until he hits The Academy's bus. He wriggles into the crawl space under the couch in the back lounge where he usually sleeps, and he curls up, trembling.
Brendon is a slave. Brendon Urie, lead singer of Panic! At The Disco, belongs to his band. Brendon Urie, teen heartthrob, pop sensation, slave. It doesn't compute. Slaves don't get to be who Brendon is.
He waits, but no one comes after him. After a long time, he falls asleep. He dreams that Tom is a slave, that the person who owns him is a slave, that everyone in the world belongs to somebody else.
***
Jon doesn't usually risk playing the instruments when they're on tour. At home, where life follows a schedule and he knows when he can rely on solitude, he spends hours on end strumming Beach Boys songs instead of doing his assigned chores, but on the road it's too chaotic and dangerous. He never knows when he might get caught.
Today, he doesn't care. He needs to feel a guitar in his hands. Sometimes music is the only thing that makes sense, and right now he needs the world to make sense.
He doesn't touch Tom's stage guitar, because he really will be screwed if another string breaks. Instead, he gets out the bass guitar, the one Tom only brings as a backup and never plays much. He hides in a back room of the venue and doesn't plug into an amp, even though he wants nothing more than to make a lot of noise.
After he's been playing for a while, he looks up to see someone standing in the doorway. He jumps, then breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes it's Brendon. He's not someone Jon really wants to talk to right now, not until he's had some more time to process, but better him than anyone else on the tour.
"Thanks for getting me home safe last night," says Brendon. He says 'home' without irony, like he really does think of the tour bus as his home.
Jon shrugs. "Thank Tom."
"No," says Brendon, and sits down cross-legged next to him. "Thank you. What's your name?"
Jon doesn't have to tell him. If Brendon is really a slave, he doesn't have to do anything for him. "Jon."
Brendon holds out a hand, like he did yesterday, and this time Jon takes it. "It's nice to meet you, Jon," he says. "Ryan tells me he said something careless last night. Can we talk about that?"
"Seriously?" Jon bursts out, unable to hold it in any longer. "You actually belong to them? You?"
Brendon nods. "Spencer, technically. I was originally his pleasure slave." Something cracks a little in his eyes, and Jon can see the fear. "No one knows that except us and Pete, and I would really like to keep it that way."
Jon glances down at the bass in his lap. "I won't tell anyone if you don't tell Tom I'm slacking off to mess with his shit."
"Deal," says Brendon, letting out a long breath. "You know, I was listening for a while before I came in. You're good. Would you play some more for me?"
It's not the first time anyone has ever politely asked Jon to do something. But it's different with other slaves. When slaves exchange favors, there's always a sense of commiseration, an unspoken balance to be repaid. This isn't like that. Brendon is just asking him to play.
Jon plays one of Panic's songs. He doesn't have to watch his fingering, but the way Brendon is staring at him pensively makes him feel awkward, so he does anyway.
***
He finds out what the staring was about when Brent doesn't show up for a performance.
"Please, Jon," Brendon begs. "We were supposed to be out there ten minutes ago and you're the only one who knows all the songs. We need you."
Jon looks back and forth between him and Ryan. Spencer is hanging back, not making eye contact. "You don't have to ask me," Jon says. "Tom's the one who gets to decide what I do."
"Yeah, but you're the one who should," Ryan says, more fiercely than Jon has ever heard him say anything. "I'll talk to him, but I'm not making you do it if you don't want to. It's up to you."
Going out on stage and performing in front of a packed theater will mean Tom finding out that he can play. It'll mean punishment, probably extremely painful physical punishment. It will also mean going out on stage and performing in front of a packed theater.
It's no decision at all.
"Of course I'll do it," says Jon. "Absolutely. If you can get Tom to let me."
Ryan practically runs to find Tom. Less than two minutes later, he's back. "Okay, let's go," he says.
"You got Tom to let us use his slave as a temp bassist?" Spencer says dubiously. "How?"
"I bought him," says Ryan.
"You what?" says Jon.
"You what?" says Spencer.
Ryan doesn't even answer, just heads out onto the stage. The audience starts shrieking, and Jon has no choice but to follow.
***
The show passes in an insane blur of lights and screams and bass lines and realizations, over and over again, that this is Jon's new home. Not the band, he's not nearly deluded enough to believe that he's anything more than a one-time substitute, but these people. These reckless boys who catapult slaves to the stage; they own him now.
He's almost positive he's seen Brendon eating pizza. The thought is almost as exciting as the ecstatic faces filling his entire field of vision, bouncing to the beat of his own thrumming notes.
They spill off the stage laughing, all of them, even Spencer, who's never worn any expression but disapproval in Jon's presence. "You're so fucking much better than Brent!" yells Ryan over the noise of the crowd. "Seriously, that was the best show we've had in months!" Brendon is nodding enthusiastically, and Spencer is just smiling.
The smile hits Jon in the gut, because he knows that Spencer thinks it was a bad idea to buy him. If anyone's going to take this away, it will be Spencer. It's very important that Spencer keeps smiling.
It's an all-night drive to the next city, which Jon knows because he's been dreading the never-ending party, the people draped all over the bus the next morning instead of stumbling back to their own buses to crash. But now he's riding on Panic's bus, because he's with Panic now, he belongs to Panic, and their bus isn't a party bus. Ryan and Brendon barely make it to their bunks before they fall asleep with their shoes on.
Spencer sits on the couch, not smiling anymore. Jon can tell that he's thinking about Ryan's impulse buy, trying to work out all the pros and cons and ramifications of the decision. It makes Jon uneasy, because he knows where logic will lead him, especially if Brent comes back.
Jon was raised to work. He's never done anything remotely like this before. But if he can improve Spencer's disposition toward him in any way, he's damn well going to, and if he once had a male pleasure slave, Spencer won't say no to a blowjob. Jon kneels in front of the couch, rubbing his hands along Spencer's thighs. "Can I?" he whispers.
Spencer's face is mostly hidden by a shadow, just his lips and chin visible in the light from the window. "You don't have to," he says, but Jon can hear the reluctance in the words.
"I want to," he says. He does want to. He wants to do anything he can to keep his place here. "I... I'm a labor slave, I won't be as good as Brendon, but..."
Spencer's jaw tightens. Oops. Maybe he shouldn't have brought that up without knowing the whole story. He goes for the distraction, getting Spencer's jeans open as fast as he can and swallowing down his already-hard cock.
Spencer gulps back a moan. Jon makes up for his inexperience with dedication, going as hard and fast as he can, squeezing his hand around the base of Spencer's cock to speed things up. It doesn't take long at all before Spencer is spilling into his mouth. He swallows, suppressing the urge to gag.
"You can have Brent's bunk," Spencer whispers, sounding almost like he hasn't just had an orgasm. "The fucker's given up his rights to it. It's the bottom one on the right."
It sounds like Spencer has been at least a little appeased about his presence, and now Jon gets a bed. Life has been good to him tonight.
***
When they get to the next venue, Spencer phones for pizza delivery to the bus. Half an hour later, there's a knock at the door. Spencer opens it to reveal a pizza girl flanked by a sheepish Brent. Jon watches with guarded interest as Spencer coolly pays for the food, passes it back to Ryan, and says, "Save me a couple slices. I'll be back in a few."
The door latches with an ominous click.
Brendon's face screws up a little in sympathy as he opens up the pizza box. "I'm mad at him too, but I wouldn't wish pissed-off Spencer on anybody. Poor guy."
Jon watches Brendon bite into a slice. His mouth is watering, but he waits until Ryan shoves the box toward him to reach out and take a slice of his own. He's had pizza before, Tom's leftover room-temperature scraps, old and congealed. It was the best thing he'd ever tasted until now. He sinks his teeth into it, closing his eyes and suppressing a moan at the flavor. It's hot and perfect, melted cheese and spicy sauce and chewy crust all blending together gloriously in his mouth. He chews slowly, making it last, and finally swallows and opens his eyes.
Brendon and Ryan are kissing.
Jon learned at a very young age not to let his reactions show too much. Movement and noise bother people, and bothering people means punishment. So he shrinks down in his seat, saying nothing, trying to figure out a way to leave without them noticing. But he's right there sitting across from them, his knees only a few inches away from theirs, he can't...
"Jon?" Brendon is looking over at him, Ryan mouthing his neck. "Ryan, knock it off. I think we forgot to mention something."
"Oh, shit." Ryan leans his forehead against Brendon's shoulder, grinning. "Sorry, Jon, I didn't even think. Do you mind?"
Jon shakes his head. "A slave being a rock star is a lot weirder to me than a slave getting to make out with a rock star."
Brendon laughs. "He meant, do you mind the making out happening in front of you. Like, does it make you uncomfortable?"
"Oh," says Jon. "No? I mean, I'm straight, but it doesn't gross me out or anything."
Brendon rests a hand in Ryan's hair. "Good. We already have to tone it down around Spencer. It would suck if we could never touch each other at all."
Jon's trying to decide whether it's okay to ask why they have to tone it down around Spencer when the bus door opens and the two of them pull apart. Spencer comes in alone and grabs a piece of pizza. "He rode on The Academy's bus," he says. "Knew it wouldn't be a good idea to show up here last night. He wants to play in the show today."
If Brent comes back, they won't need Jon. He tries not to think about what they'll do with him--they wouldn't just ditch him, he doesn't think, but playing the bass was the only reason Ryan bought him in the first place. If he can't do that for them, there's no reason to keep him.
"Hey," Brendon says. Jon looks up. "You're safe, okay, Jon? You're safe here." His eyes are sad. Jon wonders if anyone ever said that to him when he first joined this group. He wonders if it would have been true.
He bites into his pizza again. "This is really good," he says through his mouthful. "Thank you for sharing with me."
"Hell of a lot better than those nasty nutrition cube things, right?" says Brendon. Jon nods fervently.
Ryan bends over to open a cupboard in the kitchen area behind him and produces a bag of them. Brendon groans. "Dude, why did you keep those?"
"They're okay," Ryan says. "Kinda like little energy bars. They're good for when I don't feel like finding real food."
"Lazy ass," says Spencer, flicking his ear.
***
Brent plays the show that night. He plays the next few shows, too, although a few times he's late for soundcheck and Jon has to fill in. The rest of the band don't look happy about it, but he shows up on time for the concerts, and they don't say anything.
Jon gives Spencer another blowjob in Spencer's bunk while the rest of them are asleep. He doesn't mind. If they don't need him for his musical skill, he might as well make himself useful some other way, and it's not so bad. Spencer tries to reach for him afterward, but Jon slips out and back to the couch where he's been sleeping. Spencer doesn't follow him.
He doesn't realize how flimsy the bunk partitions are until the next day.
He and Brendon and Spencer are sitting around the lounge when Spencer's phone goes off near Jon's elbow. "Hey, toss me that," says Spencer, and Jon hands it over. Spencer is flipping open the screen to check his texts when Brendon explodes.
"What the fuck, Spencer," he bursts out. Jon legitimately jumps several inches into the air.
Spencer looks just as startled. "Huh?"
"You are such a fucking asswipe!" Brendon yells. "Here I was thinking you'd gotten it, you'd figured out that slaves are just people who got fucked over, and you fucking haven't! You just shunted me from the 'slave' category in your head into the 'people' category, but all the other slaves in the world are still slaves to you, aren't they? Motherfucker."
Spencer glances at Jon, like he's looking for help. "Um," he says, "I'm sorry, I thought the 'please' was implied. Thank you for giving me my phone?" Jon shrugs, utterly lost.
"Not that," Brendon spits. "I'm talking about using him for sex."
Jon flinches. He really, really does not want them to talk about that. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like he's going to have a say in the matter.
"What?" Spencer says. "He was the one who..." but Brendon is already yelling again.
"Oh, it's his fault, huh? He asked for your cock? Jesus, Spencer, he's fucking straight! You seriously think slaves are even capable of consenting? You think when a slave gets down on his knees and says he wants to blow you, he actually wants it? You think begging you to fuck me meant--"
He clamps his jaw shut suddenly and storms out.
There's a long silence before Spencer drops his face into his hands and says, "I said you didn't have to."
"I'm sorry," Jon says quickly.
"No." Spencer peeks out between his fingers. "No, I'm sorry. He's right, it was stupid to think you were actually looking for... I'm sorry." He drops his hands and looks at Jon's bemused expression. "You don't even think I owe you an apology, do you?"
Jon shakes his head honestly. He's been treated better here than ever before, with cushions to sleep on and real food and a chance to play music. He doesn't think a few blowjobs anywhere near cover it.
Spencer sighs. "Well, at least I know you deserve an apology. At least I've gotten that far."
He reaches over to the table where Ryan left the bag of nutrition cubes and pulls one out, pops it into his mouth, chews it forlornly. Jon sits there next to him awkwardly, with no idea what to do.
***
The next time Brent misses a show and Jon has to fill in, Spencer doesn't give him another chance.
"He's out," Spencer says. "He's flying home. He never really wanted this, anyway. No one's loss. I think we should ask Jon to become an official member of the band."
Jon is sitting right there. This doesn't seem to affect the discussion.
"Seconded," says Brendon.
"Motion carried," says Ryan and smacks the table with his fist. "Jon, are you in?"
"Wait a second," says Brendon. "Let me talk to him before he gives us an answer, okay?"
Spencer and Ryan file out immediately. Spencer has been skittish around Brendon lately, although Brendon seems to have decided to deal with the situation by ignoring it, so there haven't been any more blowups.
Brendon turns to Jon. "Listen," he says, "I know it feels like we're handing you all this awesome shit you haven't earned. I know you feel like you have to pay us back however you can, because favors don't just go one way. Trust me, I understand. But you seriously do not have to do anything you don't want to. If you'd rather not be part of the band, we'll still take care of you and help you figure out a way to get what you do want. I swear."
"I want it," says Jon. "This band is the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Brendon slumps down in his seat. "Yeah," he murmurs, "that's what I thought."
His eyes are sweet and sad, and Jon wants to hug him, but he doesn't know the rules. "It wasn't?" he asks.
"Well, in some ways, yeah," says Brendon. "My quality of life has sure as fuck improved. But I dunno. It's almost harder to pretend that I'm free when I'm not." He straightens up. "Welcome to the band, I guess."
It's strange to hear a slave in Brendon's position complaining. It's strange that they all seem to think Jon should be complaining too, like everything they've given him isn't enough, like he should want something more. Jon doesn't get it.
But he's starting to understand that there's something to get.
Sequel to "Thank You For The Music". There's going to be one more installment in this 'verse--drop a comment if you want me to ping you when it goes up.
Thanks to crazybutsound for the beta.
ETA: Podfic by cereselle!
***
Sometimes Jon imagines what it would be like to sit back and let Tom be the one to beg the other bands for an extra D string. It's one of his favorite daydreams, right behind getting his own guitar and being allowed to eat pizza. If he had any money, he would cheerfully and willingly buy replacement guitar strings himself just so he wouldn't have to deal with this bullshit. It's not just that Tom doesn't keep spares on hand--it's that every time Jon tries to remind him to buy more, he acts like it's somehow Jon's fault that he can't get through a show without fucking up his instrument.
"Excuse me," Jon says to the lead singer of the only band on the tour he hasn't already hit up. It's Brendon Urie, of Panic! At The Disco, and Jon is a little nervous. He doesn't know much about Panic, and he isn't sure how amenable they'll be to his mooching.
Brendon looks up from the microphone he's fiddling with. Jon quickly evaluates his expression and determines that he's not one of the people who will expect Jon to kneel and wait for permission to speak. Most people around here aren't--tours are rough and rushed, and no one has much time for formalities--but Jon prefers to err on the side of caution rather than the side of getting slapped upside the head.
"Sorry to bother you. I belong to Tom Conrad, of The Academy? One of his guitar strings broke and I was hoping to borrow an extra."
"Sure thing." Brendon hop-skips over to a heavy-duty duffel bag and squats down, rooting around. "D'Addario okay? Ryan's mostly got tens, but I think we have a few heavier sets kicking around if you need them. I haven't had a chance to sit in on The Academy's set yet, I'm not sure what Tom uses."
Jon is impressed. Singers don't often have any clue that different gauges of guitar strings exist, much less the ability to discriminate between them by sight. "Whatever you have is fine. Thanks so much."
"No problem." He comes up with an unopened package and hands over the whole set, leaving his hand extended after Jon takes it. "I'm Brendon," he prompts.
Jon blinks. "Um. I belong to Tom." He's pretty sure he already said that.
Brendon lets his hand drop against his knee with a soft smack. "Right," he mutters.
He sounds pissed. Jon isn't sure what he did wrong. "Thanks again," he says meekly and makes his escape.
***
He crosses paths with Brendon again the next night, while he's performing his usual post-show duties as a walking stick for the chronic alcoholics that always loiter on The Academy's bus. Brendon is worryingly drunk, to the point where Jon is wondering if it would be a bad idea to let him pass out like he's clearly about to do. He shifts Brendon's arm around his shoulders enough to free up a hand and knocks on the door of Panic's bus. There's no answer. He waits a while, then knocks again, bracing himself for the abuse that usually comes with dumping drunk people on bandmates who are trying to sleep.
But when the door opens and the tired-looking guitarist sticks his head out, he doesn't start yelling or swinging his fists. He doesn't even seem mad, just resigned. "Thanks for bringing him back," he says, and Jon very nearly shakes his head in astonishment. What is it with this band?
"I'm a slave," he says. Maybe they just aren't getting that.
Ryan snorts. "Not like that matters around here," he says dismissively, and glares at Brendon. "Although maybe it should. Fucking moron would be better off if he listened to us. How much did he drink?"
Jon doesn't know how much Brendon drank. He's having trouble expressing this, because he is not a moron, and he's pretty sure he didn't misinterpret what Ryan just said. "I-" he starts.
Panic's drummer appears from the shadows of the bus. "Ryan, you jackass, what the hell are you doing?" he demands. "Fuck, fuck. You, come inside right now."
For the first time in his entire life, Jon disobeys a direct order.
He dislodges Brendon from his shoulder, deposits him hurriedly in Ryan's startled arms, and runs, not stopping until he hits The Academy's bus. He wriggles into the crawl space under the couch in the back lounge where he usually sleeps, and he curls up, trembling.
Brendon is a slave. Brendon Urie, lead singer of Panic! At The Disco, belongs to his band. Brendon Urie, teen heartthrob, pop sensation, slave. It doesn't compute. Slaves don't get to be who Brendon is.
He waits, but no one comes after him. After a long time, he falls asleep. He dreams that Tom is a slave, that the person who owns him is a slave, that everyone in the world belongs to somebody else.
***
Jon doesn't usually risk playing the instruments when they're on tour. At home, where life follows a schedule and he knows when he can rely on solitude, he spends hours on end strumming Beach Boys songs instead of doing his assigned chores, but on the road it's too chaotic and dangerous. He never knows when he might get caught.
Today, he doesn't care. He needs to feel a guitar in his hands. Sometimes music is the only thing that makes sense, and right now he needs the world to make sense.
He doesn't touch Tom's stage guitar, because he really will be screwed if another string breaks. Instead, he gets out the bass guitar, the one Tom only brings as a backup and never plays much. He hides in a back room of the venue and doesn't plug into an amp, even though he wants nothing more than to make a lot of noise.
After he's been playing for a while, he looks up to see someone standing in the doorway. He jumps, then breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes it's Brendon. He's not someone Jon really wants to talk to right now, not until he's had some more time to process, but better him than anyone else on the tour.
"Thanks for getting me home safe last night," says Brendon. He says 'home' without irony, like he really does think of the tour bus as his home.
Jon shrugs. "Thank Tom."
"No," says Brendon, and sits down cross-legged next to him. "Thank you. What's your name?"
Jon doesn't have to tell him. If Brendon is really a slave, he doesn't have to do anything for him. "Jon."
Brendon holds out a hand, like he did yesterday, and this time Jon takes it. "It's nice to meet you, Jon," he says. "Ryan tells me he said something careless last night. Can we talk about that?"
"Seriously?" Jon bursts out, unable to hold it in any longer. "You actually belong to them? You?"
Brendon nods. "Spencer, technically. I was originally his pleasure slave." Something cracks a little in his eyes, and Jon can see the fear. "No one knows that except us and Pete, and I would really like to keep it that way."
Jon glances down at the bass in his lap. "I won't tell anyone if you don't tell Tom I'm slacking off to mess with his shit."
"Deal," says Brendon, letting out a long breath. "You know, I was listening for a while before I came in. You're good. Would you play some more for me?"
It's not the first time anyone has ever politely asked Jon to do something. But it's different with other slaves. When slaves exchange favors, there's always a sense of commiseration, an unspoken balance to be repaid. This isn't like that. Brendon is just asking him to play.
Jon plays one of Panic's songs. He doesn't have to watch his fingering, but the way Brendon is staring at him pensively makes him feel awkward, so he does anyway.
***
He finds out what the staring was about when Brent doesn't show up for a performance.
"Please, Jon," Brendon begs. "We were supposed to be out there ten minutes ago and you're the only one who knows all the songs. We need you."
Jon looks back and forth between him and Ryan. Spencer is hanging back, not making eye contact. "You don't have to ask me," Jon says. "Tom's the one who gets to decide what I do."
"Yeah, but you're the one who should," Ryan says, more fiercely than Jon has ever heard him say anything. "I'll talk to him, but I'm not making you do it if you don't want to. It's up to you."
Going out on stage and performing in front of a packed theater will mean Tom finding out that he can play. It'll mean punishment, probably extremely painful physical punishment. It will also mean going out on stage and performing in front of a packed theater.
It's no decision at all.
"Of course I'll do it," says Jon. "Absolutely. If you can get Tom to let me."
Ryan practically runs to find Tom. Less than two minutes later, he's back. "Okay, let's go," he says.
"You got Tom to let us use his slave as a temp bassist?" Spencer says dubiously. "How?"
"I bought him," says Ryan.
"You what?" says Jon.
"You what?" says Spencer.
Ryan doesn't even answer, just heads out onto the stage. The audience starts shrieking, and Jon has no choice but to follow.
***
The show passes in an insane blur of lights and screams and bass lines and realizations, over and over again, that this is Jon's new home. Not the band, he's not nearly deluded enough to believe that he's anything more than a one-time substitute, but these people. These reckless boys who catapult slaves to the stage; they own him now.
He's almost positive he's seen Brendon eating pizza. The thought is almost as exciting as the ecstatic faces filling his entire field of vision, bouncing to the beat of his own thrumming notes.
They spill off the stage laughing, all of them, even Spencer, who's never worn any expression but disapproval in Jon's presence. "You're so fucking much better than Brent!" yells Ryan over the noise of the crowd. "Seriously, that was the best show we've had in months!" Brendon is nodding enthusiastically, and Spencer is just smiling.
The smile hits Jon in the gut, because he knows that Spencer thinks it was a bad idea to buy him. If anyone's going to take this away, it will be Spencer. It's very important that Spencer keeps smiling.
It's an all-night drive to the next city, which Jon knows because he's been dreading the never-ending party, the people draped all over the bus the next morning instead of stumbling back to their own buses to crash. But now he's riding on Panic's bus, because he's with Panic now, he belongs to Panic, and their bus isn't a party bus. Ryan and Brendon barely make it to their bunks before they fall asleep with their shoes on.
Spencer sits on the couch, not smiling anymore. Jon can tell that he's thinking about Ryan's impulse buy, trying to work out all the pros and cons and ramifications of the decision. It makes Jon uneasy, because he knows where logic will lead him, especially if Brent comes back.
Jon was raised to work. He's never done anything remotely like this before. But if he can improve Spencer's disposition toward him in any way, he's damn well going to, and if he once had a male pleasure slave, Spencer won't say no to a blowjob. Jon kneels in front of the couch, rubbing his hands along Spencer's thighs. "Can I?" he whispers.
Spencer's face is mostly hidden by a shadow, just his lips and chin visible in the light from the window. "You don't have to," he says, but Jon can hear the reluctance in the words.
"I want to," he says. He does want to. He wants to do anything he can to keep his place here. "I... I'm a labor slave, I won't be as good as Brendon, but..."
Spencer's jaw tightens. Oops. Maybe he shouldn't have brought that up without knowing the whole story. He goes for the distraction, getting Spencer's jeans open as fast as he can and swallowing down his already-hard cock.
Spencer gulps back a moan. Jon makes up for his inexperience with dedication, going as hard and fast as he can, squeezing his hand around the base of Spencer's cock to speed things up. It doesn't take long at all before Spencer is spilling into his mouth. He swallows, suppressing the urge to gag.
"You can have Brent's bunk," Spencer whispers, sounding almost like he hasn't just had an orgasm. "The fucker's given up his rights to it. It's the bottom one on the right."
It sounds like Spencer has been at least a little appeased about his presence, and now Jon gets a bed. Life has been good to him tonight.
***
When they get to the next venue, Spencer phones for pizza delivery to the bus. Half an hour later, there's a knock at the door. Spencer opens it to reveal a pizza girl flanked by a sheepish Brent. Jon watches with guarded interest as Spencer coolly pays for the food, passes it back to Ryan, and says, "Save me a couple slices. I'll be back in a few."
The door latches with an ominous click.
Brendon's face screws up a little in sympathy as he opens up the pizza box. "I'm mad at him too, but I wouldn't wish pissed-off Spencer on anybody. Poor guy."
Jon watches Brendon bite into a slice. His mouth is watering, but he waits until Ryan shoves the box toward him to reach out and take a slice of his own. He's had pizza before, Tom's leftover room-temperature scraps, old and congealed. It was the best thing he'd ever tasted until now. He sinks his teeth into it, closing his eyes and suppressing a moan at the flavor. It's hot and perfect, melted cheese and spicy sauce and chewy crust all blending together gloriously in his mouth. He chews slowly, making it last, and finally swallows and opens his eyes.
Brendon and Ryan are kissing.
Jon learned at a very young age not to let his reactions show too much. Movement and noise bother people, and bothering people means punishment. So he shrinks down in his seat, saying nothing, trying to figure out a way to leave without them noticing. But he's right there sitting across from them, his knees only a few inches away from theirs, he can't...
"Jon?" Brendon is looking over at him, Ryan mouthing his neck. "Ryan, knock it off. I think we forgot to mention something."
"Oh, shit." Ryan leans his forehead against Brendon's shoulder, grinning. "Sorry, Jon, I didn't even think. Do you mind?"
Jon shakes his head. "A slave being a rock star is a lot weirder to me than a slave getting to make out with a rock star."
Brendon laughs. "He meant, do you mind the making out happening in front of you. Like, does it make you uncomfortable?"
"Oh," says Jon. "No? I mean, I'm straight, but it doesn't gross me out or anything."
Brendon rests a hand in Ryan's hair. "Good. We already have to tone it down around Spencer. It would suck if we could never touch each other at all."
Jon's trying to decide whether it's okay to ask why they have to tone it down around Spencer when the bus door opens and the two of them pull apart. Spencer comes in alone and grabs a piece of pizza. "He rode on The Academy's bus," he says. "Knew it wouldn't be a good idea to show up here last night. He wants to play in the show today."
If Brent comes back, they won't need Jon. He tries not to think about what they'll do with him--they wouldn't just ditch him, he doesn't think, but playing the bass was the only reason Ryan bought him in the first place. If he can't do that for them, there's no reason to keep him.
"Hey," Brendon says. Jon looks up. "You're safe, okay, Jon? You're safe here." His eyes are sad. Jon wonders if anyone ever said that to him when he first joined this group. He wonders if it would have been true.
He bites into his pizza again. "This is really good," he says through his mouthful. "Thank you for sharing with me."
"Hell of a lot better than those nasty nutrition cube things, right?" says Brendon. Jon nods fervently.
Ryan bends over to open a cupboard in the kitchen area behind him and produces a bag of them. Brendon groans. "Dude, why did you keep those?"
"They're okay," Ryan says. "Kinda like little energy bars. They're good for when I don't feel like finding real food."
"Lazy ass," says Spencer, flicking his ear.
***
Brent plays the show that night. He plays the next few shows, too, although a few times he's late for soundcheck and Jon has to fill in. The rest of the band don't look happy about it, but he shows up on time for the concerts, and they don't say anything.
Jon gives Spencer another blowjob in Spencer's bunk while the rest of them are asleep. He doesn't mind. If they don't need him for his musical skill, he might as well make himself useful some other way, and it's not so bad. Spencer tries to reach for him afterward, but Jon slips out and back to the couch where he's been sleeping. Spencer doesn't follow him.
He doesn't realize how flimsy the bunk partitions are until the next day.
He and Brendon and Spencer are sitting around the lounge when Spencer's phone goes off near Jon's elbow. "Hey, toss me that," says Spencer, and Jon hands it over. Spencer is flipping open the screen to check his texts when Brendon explodes.
"What the fuck, Spencer," he bursts out. Jon legitimately jumps several inches into the air.
Spencer looks just as startled. "Huh?"
"You are such a fucking asswipe!" Brendon yells. "Here I was thinking you'd gotten it, you'd figured out that slaves are just people who got fucked over, and you fucking haven't! You just shunted me from the 'slave' category in your head into the 'people' category, but all the other slaves in the world are still slaves to you, aren't they? Motherfucker."
Spencer glances at Jon, like he's looking for help. "Um," he says, "I'm sorry, I thought the 'please' was implied. Thank you for giving me my phone?" Jon shrugs, utterly lost.
"Not that," Brendon spits. "I'm talking about using him for sex."
Jon flinches. He really, really does not want them to talk about that. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like he's going to have a say in the matter.
"What?" Spencer says. "He was the one who..." but Brendon is already yelling again.
"Oh, it's his fault, huh? He asked for your cock? Jesus, Spencer, he's fucking straight! You seriously think slaves are even capable of consenting? You think when a slave gets down on his knees and says he wants to blow you, he actually wants it? You think begging you to fuck me meant--"
He clamps his jaw shut suddenly and storms out.
There's a long silence before Spencer drops his face into his hands and says, "I said you didn't have to."
"I'm sorry," Jon says quickly.
"No." Spencer peeks out between his fingers. "No, I'm sorry. He's right, it was stupid to think you were actually looking for... I'm sorry." He drops his hands and looks at Jon's bemused expression. "You don't even think I owe you an apology, do you?"
Jon shakes his head honestly. He's been treated better here than ever before, with cushions to sleep on and real food and a chance to play music. He doesn't think a few blowjobs anywhere near cover it.
Spencer sighs. "Well, at least I know you deserve an apology. At least I've gotten that far."
He reaches over to the table where Ryan left the bag of nutrition cubes and pulls one out, pops it into his mouth, chews it forlornly. Jon sits there next to him awkwardly, with no idea what to do.
***
The next time Brent misses a show and Jon has to fill in, Spencer doesn't give him another chance.
"He's out," Spencer says. "He's flying home. He never really wanted this, anyway. No one's loss. I think we should ask Jon to become an official member of the band."
Jon is sitting right there. This doesn't seem to affect the discussion.
"Seconded," says Brendon.
"Motion carried," says Ryan and smacks the table with his fist. "Jon, are you in?"
"Wait a second," says Brendon. "Let me talk to him before he gives us an answer, okay?"
Spencer and Ryan file out immediately. Spencer has been skittish around Brendon lately, although Brendon seems to have decided to deal with the situation by ignoring it, so there haven't been any more blowups.
Brendon turns to Jon. "Listen," he says, "I know it feels like we're handing you all this awesome shit you haven't earned. I know you feel like you have to pay us back however you can, because favors don't just go one way. Trust me, I understand. But you seriously do not have to do anything you don't want to. If you'd rather not be part of the band, we'll still take care of you and help you figure out a way to get what you do want. I swear."
"I want it," says Jon. "This band is the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Brendon slumps down in his seat. "Yeah," he murmurs, "that's what I thought."
His eyes are sweet and sad, and Jon wants to hug him, but he doesn't know the rules. "It wasn't?" he asks.
"Well, in some ways, yeah," says Brendon. "My quality of life has sure as fuck improved. But I dunno. It's almost harder to pretend that I'm free when I'm not." He straightens up. "Welcome to the band, I guess."
It's strange to hear a slave in Brendon's position complaining. It's strange that they all seem to think Jon should be complaining too, like everything they've given him isn't enough, like he should want something more. Jon doesn't get it.
But he's starting to understand that there's something to get.